To Kiss

Enough was enough. It was true that he loved this fair creature before him. Did it matter that he was created against the laws of men and gods? No. Did he care that he had called her sister for eighteen years? … Yes, but not enough to enough to counter the calling of his heart. Would he be bound by the wills of society? His passion, his spirit, would not be bound. He has spent his whole life playing by the rules. He had been meek, compliant for two decades. No more would the rules of ordinary men dictate his actions. He was better, made so, made unequal by his creator. Determination filled every cell of his body. He would have and be had as Love made his right.

He stood up. His right hand rose up. His finger invaded the hairs at the top of Juliet’s neck. They slide through her perspiration, as he cupped the back of her head. At the same time, his other hand made its sinistral path around her waist. The small breath, she had left between the two of he with her threatening seduction, was closed by his strength.

The universe is infinite, they say. That means that for everything imaginable there probably has existed some example of it, somewhere. In all of time there, most have been countless kisses of varying passions. Surely, in an infinite universe there was a kiss filled with more passion, more love, more destiny, more will, than the one that was born from when his lips met hers. But it is beyond my petty measure of genius to imagine, or my few years to have witnessed.

It was not a fantastical kiss. It was not a magical moment. It was real. It was a real in a pure sense. Both of he knew the other loved he. It was not the words the two of he had exchanged; it was cupid, who flew between his hearts, who, by this primordial messenger, exchanged truths of fidelity, yearning, lust, ardency, cherishment, and amour. It was that love that exists when Eros and Aphrodite both bless a union. Odysseus had felt it for Penelope. Morgan le Faye felt it for Bertilak de Hautdesert. It was the love between Oberon and Titania, and it was the love between John and Juliet Doe.

The energy was powerful. It grew with exponential fury. Did he take her? Was he taken? It cannot really be said. The truth is probably both. Within moments of the kiss’s birth, Juliet’s arms had shown her acceptance of his love’s proof. The world was nothing; all that existed in his perceptions were each other. Like Arachne, her fingers roamed his back. In his passions. He soon found himself upon the bed . . .